Riding the Metro-Rail

The distant bark of the loudspeaker marks the impending arrival of the train.

“Two minutes until red-line arrival. Please, stand clear of the tracks.”

I clutch my valise more tightly to my chest and dash, head-down across the red-lit stoplight pools, their thousand rain-drop ripples shattering the mirror of the street.

The wet, huddled throng waits meekly beneath the too-short plastic roof and when the metro-rail has thundered to a stop, we pour gratefully aboard.

I stand. The damp-wet smell of city trash and unwashed bodies overwhelms.

“A good choice. That’s a good choice you made.”

A woman smiles up at me from her seat. It takes me a moment to realize she is addressing me.

“A good choice. To stand.”

She nods, eyes quick and darting, wildly ranging across the rows of our co-riders: men in fluorescent construction vests and button down sweaters, women in brown cleaning uniforms and monotone scrubs.

Her own uncombed mop of red hair and grime-stained clothes cohere her to the metro crowd.

She pats the plastic five-gallon bucket lid she is perched on.

“I take it everywhere. Everywhere. You can never be too careful.”

Her eyes bulge demonically and she gesticulates violently to our co-riders. A man behind her squirms uncomfortably.

“Germs. They’re everywhere. A good choice.” She smiles conspiratorially, insanely, eyes delirious in the flickering fluorescent light.

I laugh inwardly at the irony. Of all the passengers, we are the only sane two.